Goldman still didn’t know why she had ever agreed to come here. This place represented many of the things she hated about Wall Street: the reckless power, the good-old-boy network, the loose money, and the blatant, in-your-face attitude of the self-styled power mongers who felt more comfortable dealing over strong drinks and spicy chicken wings than with telephones and computer networks. The loud, drunken greetings and the hushed, secretive huddles bothered her equally.

Dmitri Ustinov had insisted that she have dinner here with his team tonight. He refused to hear her claims of too much work and not enough time. If he meant to impress her, to influence her in some way by inviting her here, he could not have made a worse choice.

The rotund young Russian spotted her somehow through the smog. He yelled and waved to her from the bar.

“Cathy! We’re over here.”

Goldman hated to be called “Cathy.” Her name was Catherine. She hoped no one else with whom she might have had dealings on The Street would see her coming into this place.

Still, she returned the wave and wound her way through the milling crowd. A tall, striking blonde stood there next to Ustinov. Catherine had noticed her around the office. Marina Something-or-other. Another Russian. A talented programmer, from everything that Goldman had heard. She seemed very cold, standoffish. She was surprised now to see that Marina Something-or-other was being very cozy with the obnoxious head of testing at OptiMarx.

Maybe it was true. Opposites did attract, after all.

“Cathy, come on over! We have a dining room in back!” Ustinov shouted over the din. “Everyone else is back there already.”

When she got close enough, he grabbed her hand along with the Russian woman’s and led them both back into the shadowy recesses of the pub. Ustinov plowed through the crowd of boisterous traders, ignoring the hard looks he got from some of them when he shoved them aside so they could get past. They emerged in front of a dark wood-paneled door guarded by one of Harry’s waiters. He acknowledged Ustinov’s offered tip with a wink and swung the door open for them.

The dining room was dimly lit but quite opulent. She could see the familiar faces of several members of Ustinov’s testing team from OptiMarx already seated at the long central table. Silverware and china glinted in the candlelight, reflected by the gilt mirrors that lined the walls, bathing the room in a shower of diamondlike light. Ustinov led the two women to the head of the table and waved Goldman to the seat at his right and Marina to the one to his left.